The Fate the Gods Wove Us
by darkdaysofsummer
Summary: A strange man arrives in her village. And the longer he stays, the more she suspects he is not all he seems. As feelings grow and truths come to light, their fate will intertwine into a bind she's not sure she wants to break…An alternate fate for Erlendur, where in the fjords of Norway he finds meaning, contentment, and perhaps even love.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One: The Stranger**

"Why do we have to go out today? It is too cold for this!"

My sister's voice resonates in my ears for what seems the hundredth time that afternoon. We are out by the stream, searching for any late winter plants that might get our flocks through until spring.

But it seems I picked a poor day to gather plants. The sun, which had warmed the fjords and helped to melt the worst of the snow, had drifted behind the clouds, and wind was blowing in from the west.

Jorunn kicks at the basket, which is not even half full. "Let's go home, Brynja. I'm freezing!"

The wind had been getting stronger all day. I was cold too, even with my heavy wool cloak, but did not want to admit to Jorunn that she was right.

"There's not much left to get" I insist. "We can go in a minute".

Jorunn does not respond. It is unusual for her to miss a chance to speak, so I turn to her. She is staring at something downstream. I stand from where I was kneeling on the ground and move to look with her. At first, I think it is an animal. I take a few steps closer to try and make it out.

"Brynja, don't!" Jorunn's voice behind me is now pitched with nervousness. I stare ahead and realize what I am looking at is not an animal. It is a leather tunic, matted hair, and mud-stained boots.

"It's a man!" I call over my shoulder. I hear Jorunn gasp, and a moment later she is peering at him beside me.

"Is he…dead?" she voices what I too am wondering.

I am afraid to check, but at the same time, we cannot leave him lying in a crumpled heap by stream. If he is alive, it won't be for long, as he would not survive out in the cold. And if he is already dead, his body would attract animals.

"He is filthy" Jorunn wrinkles her delicate nose. "He doesn't smell dead, though".

I move forward cautiously, in case he moves. When I am at his side, close enough to touch him, I reach a hand out and place it on his neck. His skin is surprisingly warm, but clammy with sweat. The roughness of stubble scrapes at my fingertips, and I can make out a feeble pulse beneath the skin.

"He's still alive! But he feels warm. I think he has a fever."

He is lying on his stomach, sprawled out. I wonder if he simply collapsed. His head is tilted towards me, but half is pressed against the earth, the other half hidden by matted blond hair. I gently push his hair back to see his face, but it is smeared with mud and sweat.

"Go home and get some help. Bring them back here!" I tell my sister.

"What?" Her blue eyes widen. She glances down at the unconscious man next to me and sneers a bit. "Why? He probably won't survive. Can't we just leave him?"

"No!" My voice is louder and sharper than I intend, but my sister's selfishness infuriates me sometimes. "He could die and that's exactly why we have to help him. Now go, and hurry!"

Jorunn turns around sharply, auburn braids swinging. I can hear her grumbling, but when I glance over my shoulder, I see her break into a run in the direction of the house.

"Don't worry" I say, though I am unsure whether I speak to myself or the man next to me.

I feel I have been sitting there forever before the sound of people interrupts the quiet woods. Jorunn has returned. Our brother-in-law, Elof, and one of the male slaves are with her. They carry a litter with them.

I move to the side so Elof can crouch next to the body. He runs his eyes over it without speaking. Finally, he turns to me. "You found him here?"

"Yes, well, Jorunn saw him first. I realized he was alive and sent her to get help. He was already unconscious when we saw him and he hasn't moved since. I have no idea how long he's been lying here".

Elof nods and gestures to the slave to help him. I stand, my legs aching after kneeling so long, and move out of the way. I watch as they carefully turn the man over and move him to the litter.

"Gudrun is at the house" Elof says. "If she can't help him…" His voice purposefully trails off.

I nod, knowing that this poor man's chances of survival are not very high. But Gudrun is my elder sister and the best healer I know. To my knowledge, she's never failed to heal anyone.

"She can" I insist, hoping I sound confident. I don't want to think about burying some stranger. Elof grunts, but otherwise makes no reply.

Jorunn and I hurry ahead, while the men are slowed by their burden. At our father's house, we find Gudrun standing at the table, prepping herbs. When the others enter, she hurries to help them unload the man onto a spare bedplace.

Gudrun lays her head against the man's chest, then peers at his still face. "Where did you find him exactly?"

"In the woods, alongside the stream" I say, removing my cloak and hanging it by the door. "He wasn't moving, but when I realized he was still alive I sent Jorunn for help".

"I thought it would be better to just leave him there" Jorunn speaks from her bed, where she sits redoing her braids. Gudrun thrusts an iron pot in her direction.

"Make yourself useful and get some water heating" my elder sister says to my younger. Jorunn makes a face at her, but does as she's told.

"What can I do?" I ask. I want to help, though I know better than to get in Gudrun's way. Gudrun instructs me on some herbs to prepare that she thinks will lower his fever. I move to the table and start to work. These herbs remind me that we forgot the ones from the stream.

I don't know how much time passes as my sisters and I tend this stranger. We give him herbs to lower his fever and clear the congestion in his chest. I take a bowl of warm water and a cloth and wipe the dirt from his face.

With that cleared away, I can get a better look at his appearance. I am surprised to realize he is not that much older than I, certainly no older than Gudrun, who will be twenty-four at the beginning of next winter. His blond hair is matted and falls past his shoulders. A short, scruffy beard lines his jaw. He has a fair complexion, with fine features and full lips. Something about his face makes me think of the elves in the stories I heard as a child.

Jorunn peers over my shoulder to look at him. Her face changes from the look of disgust and fear she had previously given him, to one of interest. "Hmm, underneath all the dirt he's almost handsome".

"Who is handsome?" Asta, our father's mother, enters the room. She spends most of her time in the back of the longhouse spinning wool around the smaller firepit.

"The man we found in the woods" Jorunn replies now to her question. My grandmother glances down at him and frowns at us.

"This young man is ill, and only the gods know if he will live or not. You girls shouldn't be eyeing him like a starving dog eyes a piece of meat".

"We weren't 'eyeing' "Jorunn starts to argue, but she is cut off.

"Come into the other room and let him rest. It is time for dinner to be started anyway".

We move away from the bed to go prepare dinner. Our father has been out checking the pregnant ewes all day, preparing for the lambing that could start any time. When he comes in, as the sun has set, he stares at the still man sleeping in the corner. One exchanged look with his mother is all it takes for us to explain the situation.

When we finish the story, he simply nods and accepts a bowl of soup from Gudrun. She, Elof, and their two young children, Trygve and Kari, are going to stay the night since it has gotten so late. Gudrun will be available to tend to our strange guest and Elof is willing to help my father with the flocks. Asta, of course, is more than happy to watch her great-grandchildren.

When dinner is finished, I go back to the man's bedside. I pull out my spinning whorl and pretend to spin while I study him more closely. Earlier, I had been so preoccupied with whether he would survive or not, I had not bothered to pay close attention to the rest of his appearance beyond his face and the mud.

He wears a blue tunic and black trousers underneath a rough brown cloak. The clothing is worn and stained, but the material is of good wool. He has well-made boots of leather and sealskin. What intrigues me most, though, is the sword at his hip. I had not noticed it before, but a sword belt wraps around his hips.

The pommel is crafted with gold; the grip of the sword and scabbard are both of the finest leather. Ornate silver tips the end of the scabbard to stop the blade from poking through. Some men in the area own swords, but none are as fine as this one. There are no true warriors on our farmstead or in the nearby village. Our people are just farmers. The men know enough of fighting to defend us and to go on short raids, but everyone is a farmer or craftsman.

I wonder about this man. How does he afford such a finely made sword and good clothing? Where did he come from? And why was he by the stream? I hope we will get some answers when—if—he wakes.

For now, I settle on the stool by his bed, and watch the light from the hearth flames flicker across his face. I can only voice my questions to the shadows.

"Who are you?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Awakening**

 _(I always forget a disclaimer! But of course I don't own Vikings or Erlendur, only Brynja and all the OCs)._

Three days pass since Jorunn and I found the man by the stream. Thanks to Gudrun's medicines, his fever breaks the day following his arrival, though he does not wake. He remains in a deep sleep, and I start to worry. I voice my fears to my grandmother. Gudrun, certain the man would not die since his fever broke, returned to her home in the village with Elof and the children.

Asta dismisses my worries. "Rest is what he needs. Let him sleep. When he wakes, he will be much better. His fever is gone, and he is no longer on the brink of death. Let him sleep".

Even with that reassurance, I find myself continually checking on him throughout the day. The weather gives me plenty of excuse to remain inside. The night following our finding the young man, a strong storm passed through. Strong winds ripped branches from the trees and damaged the fences. Rain assaulted our fields for the next few days.

On the morning of the fourth day, the sun chooses to shine. I am out tending the goats. My father is preoccupied with the sheep herds as the lambing began two days before. Four of the ewes had already been delivered; two of them bore twins. So far, all the lambs survived, but I knew my father worried the foul weather and damp would harm them.

I have just finished the milking when I hear a scream come from the house. I am certain from the high-pitch it is Jorunn. I hurriedly set the buckets down and run to the house. Inside, Jorunn stands by the door, gaping at the bedplace where our guest had been lying.

It is empty.

Instead, he stands staring back at us. His face is pale. He sways then clutches at the wall with white knuckles. His eyes are bright and alert, though. I see a look of confusion cross his face as he looks from my sister to me.

"Where am I?" He speaks in Danish, but I am unsure of his accent. There is sharpness in his voice, perhaps even a hint of anger.

I do not know why he would be angry. I try to speak as calmly as I can. "You're at my father's farm, just outside the village". Our village is small and rather isolated, but merchants occasionally make their way to trade wares.

He stares at me, seemingly confused, so I do my best to explain. "You're in Norway. We—my sister, Jorunn, and I—found you by the stream. You were unconscious and had a fever so we brought you here and took care of you. You're welcome, by the way".

I should not have added the last sentence, as it dripped with sarcasm, but I do not like the look on his face. He was staring at us with the same sneer Jorunn uses whenever she is displeased with something.

"I suppose I should thank you?" I cannot tell if he is sincere or not. The anger still tinges his voice.

"My name is Brynja" I say, hoping to ease the strange tension in the room. "What is your name?"

His lips part as if to speak, but then he hesitates. He is reluctant to say.

I don't understand why he would be reluctant to tell us. But then I remember his fine clothes and sword. Something about this man does not want to add up.

"Erlendur".

"What?"

"My name is Erlendur".

Erlendur. A name that meant foreigner or stranger. It seemed appropriate. I am about to ask his patronymic when we are interrupted.

"You are awake". Asta has come into the room. "How are you feeling?"

I realize I didn't even think to ask how he was.

The man—Erlendur—is staring around the room, from Asta, to me, to Jorunn, who has been strangely quiet this whole time.

"I am fine. She", here he points to me, "says she found me by a stream".

"My granddaughter, Brynja. Yes, you were brought here several days ago. And so late in the winter. It really isn't warm enough for travel yet".

Erlendur turns his eyes from her and I can tell he does not want to answer.

The silence is interrupted by a loud growling noise. Erlendur clutches his stomach and I notice his cheeks turn pink. I try to hide a smile.

My grandmother seems the only one unembarrassed or amused. "You'll have to forgive us; we are all so surprised at your awakening we've forgotten everything else. Of course you must be hungry. Brynja, get the man some food. Jorunn, tend to the fire; it's getting cold again".

Jorunn snaps out of her gaping and hurries to the hearth. I gather a bit of leftovers from breakfast and bring it to Erlendur, who is still standing uncertainly by his bed. He watches the activity with casual interest.

I hand the food over to him and force myself to look into his face, though not directly into his eyes. I realize he is only a little taller than I, and rather thin. When he was asleep, he had an innocent, peaceful look to him. Awake, he reminds me of a wolf.

He takes the food from me, and his fingers brush against mine. Whether intentional or not, I don't know. An unfamiliar sensation erupts in my stomach and a tremor runs through my body.

If he notices my trembling, he does not remark on it. I quickly turn away before he can even thank me, and I rush outside. I hope the sun and fresh air will bring me back to my senses. I can still feel his rough hand against mine, though the touch only lasted a moment.

I hope the stranger leaves soon.

…

Erlendur remains inside, as Asta insists he still needs rest to fully recover. I am grateful he does so. I cannot quite put my finger on it, but something about him makes me uneasy. And yet, I cannot help but wonder about him. I avoid the house as much as possible that day so I do not have to see him. Perhaps by avoiding him, I can keep him off my mind.

There is plenty to keep me occupied. Life on a farm is hard, the days are long, and the gods are not always kind. Every day, I wake at sunrise and tend the hearth fire. It will need brought up from where it was left to smolder during the night, or completely rebuilt if it went out. Once the fire is burning, breakfast is made.

As the eldest unmarried woman in the house, much of the work of running the household falls to me. Jorunn helps as well with the spinning and caring for the herds. We can only afford to have a few slaves. They are given tasks including milking the cows and goats, cleaning the animal pens, collecting firewood, and applying fertilizer to the fields.

Following the morning meal, my day is spent in the dairy skimming cream, churning butter, and making cheese and skyr. Or I would be managing the stores of grains, preserving the fruits and vegetables, and brewing ale and mead. There is always an endless amount of housekeeping—sweeping the floors, washing, scrubbing, dusting, changing the bed linens—and I delegate these tasks to the servants whenever I can. Any spare time is spent spinning thread, weaving cloth, sewing, patching, and embroidering clothes. I always carry my spindle with me, so I can never be idle.

I spend my day trying to stay as busy as possible. Eventually, the sun begins to lower, and I am forced back to the house to prepare the evening meal.

Erlendur is back in his bedplace. He is still pale and he looks tired, despite all the sleep he's had. I feel a twinge of compassion for him. I should not have been sarcastic towards him this morning. He woke in strange place with people he did not know; of course he would be wary. That did not explain, though, why he seemed so angry.

"Are you feeling better?" I ask as I chop root vegetables and salted meat for stew.

"Yes. Do you think your grandmother would let me out of bed?"

I shrug. "If you think you are strong enough".

The words are barely from my mouth when he swings his legs over the side and stands up. He does not seem as unsteady as he was this morning. He watches me work. I keep my head down so I do not have to look at him, but I can feel his eyes on me.

He does not speak to me again as I prepare dinner. Jorunn has come in to help me, and she chatters away about some gossip she heard from people in the village. I listen with half an ear as we work. The rest of my mind keeps wandering back to the man in the room.

When dinner is prepared, our father Arnor comes in from the fields and Asta shuffles in from the other room. We all gather around the hearth-side table to eat. It is a quiet meal; my father making the occasional comment about the good fortune the gods have given us so far for our flocks.

I smile to myself. I am pleased my father is optimistic about his herds, though I know how quickly things can change. The gods can revert their blessings in an instant.

"So how did you come to be in the woods? Are you from around here?" Jorunn cuts through the silence. Everyone's eyes turn towards our guest.

Erlendur takes a drink and diverts his eyes away. He does not want to answer anything. The questions hang uncomfortably in the air.

"Jorunn," Asta says, "It is rude to ask such questions to guest".

Jorunn shrugs and goes back to her meal. I gaze at Erlendur from across the table. I am curious about this man, in spite of myself.

"I am need of help for my farm" my father cuts through the awkwardness. "If you would be willing to stay a while—at least until the crops are planted—I would appreciate the extra hands".

"And as you can see," he gestures around the table, "I am a bit outnumbered by the women".

I gape at my father. How could he expect this man to stay? We know nothing about him. It is one thing to take in an ill stranger, but this goes beyond the offer of hospitality.

Erlendur looks up from his plate and stares at my father. "You are asking me to stay?"

"If you want. I understand, of course, if you need to be leaving".

"No" Erlendur states. At first, I think he is refusing. I am not sure whether to be relived or disappointed.

"I mean, I don't have anywhere to go" he finishes.

My father looks hopeful. "Then you will stay?"

"Father," I force myself to speak up. I know it is none of my business who my father chooses to work on his land, but all the same. "I don't know if it would be a good idea for this man to…"

Both father and Erlendur turn to me. My father is waiting for me to continue, but I trail off, unnerved by their gazes. Mainly by Erlendur, whose glare seems to be challenging me.

"I just mean, I don't know if it would be good for him to continue sleeping in here, with your daughters". I mumble. I am annoyed with myself for losing my nerve.

Arnor laughs. "My daughter is always so concerned with how things on the farm are run. I'm sure we can arrange something appropriate, daughter".

Erlendur speaks. "I admit I don't know much about farming…And your daughters," here he looks towards me, "they did save my life. Consider this repaying the debt".

My father nods. "Good. It is settled then". He extends his hand across the table.

Erlendur hesitates a moment, then reaches out to grasp it.

It seems our stranger will be staying.


	3. Chapter 3

The last of the snow is melting. Spring begins to arrive with bursts of color as the fjords reappear from their snowy coverings. Bright green leaves and blooming flowers are forming on the trees.

The lambing continues into the first few weeks of spring and my father seems relieved at the healthy flock. In too many years past, we've struggled on meager amounts of meat and wool to get us through the winter.

I am surprised at the help Erlendur has been. He has taken quite an interest in the farming and seems willing to learn. I guess from the clothes he wore, the sword he possesses, and his lack of farming knowledge that he comes from a well-off family. Perhaps he is the younger son of a wealthy landowner, with no hope of an inheritance, and he had gone out to make his own way in the world.

No one asks Erlendur about his past and he does not bring it up. Overall, he is a quiet man, staring more than he talks. I wish he would speak a bit more. I can't read him at all, and it makes his presence frustrating.

A month after Erlendur arrives, I reach my eighteenth year. One's birthday is never cause for celebration; simply a record of having lived another year. But for me it is a frustrating reminder that I am another year older and without marriage prospects. I have heard of girls as young as thirteen becoming brides and being mothers as early as fourteen or fifteen. Both my grandmother and mother were married at fifteen and mothers at sixteen.

But I have little time to wallow in self-pity. Life on a farm is already busy enough, and spring means an even greater amount of work. New animals are being born, and the fields must be plowed and seeds planted if we are to have a good harvest in time for winter.

This morning, as always, I wash and dress and braid my dark hair off of my face, before starting another long day of chores.

I am the only one of my siblings who has our father's black hair and deep blue eyes. Gudrun and Jorunn's eyes are blue as well, but a lighter hue and they both have our late mother's auburn hair and fair complexion. Neither of them ever seems to blemish from the sun or wind, while I simply have to stand outside a moment for the elements to turn my cheeks red.

Today, the men are re-thatching the stable roof. The dried straw had taken a harsh beating from the long winter weather and needs replaced if the animals are to stay dry and comfortable. It is especially important the young lambs and kids are protected.

Erlendur is up on the roof with Elof. Being the village carpenter, Elof came by this morning with wooden beans we plan to use on the boat-house. He has offered to stay a bit and help with the thatching. The farm never seems to have enough hands to work it.

Elof and Erlendur have been getting on quite well, as if they've known each other forever. Erlendur seems impressed by Elof's skills in carving, and Elof has taken the time to teach him a bit. Both men are silent, contemplative types; they seem to have some understanding of their crafts that don't require words.

Erlendur has shown us his own skills; I must admit, he is smart and innovative. Within a few weeks of his arrival, he had helped to rebuild fences and gates, and had even modified the old plow so it could provide a better turn of the soil.

I am impressed, despite the uncertainties I had of him. I find it strange, though, that he could have good clothes and an expensive weapon, with no knowledge of farming, yet he is skilled and takes to the task easily. While I am still wondering about who he really is, I can't deny he has been an asset.

Shouting carries down from the fields, drawing me from my thoughts. A couple of men are running towards us, waving their arms. They are shouting something I can't make out.

Then, over the horizon, I see them. A few dozen men, a few on horseback, and all of them armed with axes, spears, and bows.

Two of the men mounted urge their horses forward after the runners. Arrows are released, and with a sickening noise, they sink into the backs of the running men. Both fall, dead before they hit the ground.

My heart drops to my stomach as the invaders make their way towards the farm. Everyone is noticing them; tools are dropped, men rush to grab spear and axes to meet them, women drag the children inside. I notice Erlendur out of the corner of my eye; he has gotten off the roof and is running towards the house. Is he going to help us or flee?

Chaos has erupted over the farmstead. The sheep run franticly around their pen, horses stomp from inside the stables, and the dogs bark and snarl, straining against their grasped collars.

I make my way towards the house to warn Asta and Jorunn. Blood pounds in my ears as I run. I hope they have heard the alarms, and have hidden themselves away.

The invaders are coming down on us. I watch in horror as men are cut down. The women scream and shield their children. Some of them are being dragged from the homes by the hair. This invasion is not random, I am certain. Whoever sent these men intends to make us slaves and steal our livestock.

By some grace of the gods, I am able to dive behind some crates for cover, uninjured and unnoticed. I am ashamed for hiding like a coward, but what can I do? I am no fighter, and I cannot make it to the house without being stopped or killed.

I look to the house and pray to all the gods my family is not harmed. For now, the building doesn't seem to have been damaged, but I don't see my father, sister, or grandmother.

But then, I see Erlendur burst out the door. He is carrying one of the shields we had hanging on the wall. His sword, its naked blade gleaming in the sun, is in his other hand. The fiercest snarl I've seen on him crosses his face.

I can only stare as Erlendur meets the invaders head on. He swings his sword with such precision; his foes all fall at his feet.

Erlendur slashes one man down, then turns on another. His fierceness seems to have roused the other men from their fear. Armed with spears, axes, and hunting bows, the men of the farmstead begin to overpower our invaders.

There is a heart-stopping moment when I see Erlendur slip in the blood-soaked grass, and I think for a moment he is going to die. But he braces himself, catching his enemy's blade against his shield, and using the weight to thrust himself up and drive his sword through the man's chest.

The sound of children crying distracts me from the rest of the fighting. I turn and see across the yard are two little girls. They cannot be more than five or six. I recognize them as the daughters of a tenant.

The fighting is still going on and I don't know if it's safe to leave my shelter. But I cannot be a coward and leave those two children alone and unguarded. Taking a deep breath, I glance around me to see if it is clear. Then, before I can falter, I break from behind the crates and run to the girls as fast as I can.

I run so hard I trip and sprawl in the dirt. There is a sharp pain in my left hand. I feel a warm liquid on my palm. I know I am bleeding, but there is no time to worry about it. I scramble to my feet, dirt and straw coating my skirt, and make my way to the girls.

I grab them and pull them both close to me. We get behind a wicker wall. They cling to me, tears staining their faces.

"Don't cry. Don't be afraid. We'll be alright". I whisper into their hair. I am terrified myself, but I still try to comfort them.

I can feel blood running down my forearm. I glance at the wound and see a cut on my hand. I must have hit it on a dropped weapon. The cut is bleeding, but doesn't seem to be too deep. I press my hand against the cloth of my skirt to stop the blood.

The sounds of the fighting outside seem to be lessening. I pray it is because we have subdued the attackers and they are fleeing. The sound of someone coming towards us startles me. A ruddy faced man with a red beard is looking down on us. He is dressed in leather and fur and carries a long, two-handed axe.

The only weapon I have close to me is the small knife I use for cutting herbs and tasks around the farm. I pull it from the leather pouch I wear on my belt with my free hand.

The man with the axe moves towards us. Even as filled with fear as I am, beneath that, I feel a sudden anger; anger at these men for attacking us and harming us.

Driven by this, I scramble forward, forcing the girls to stay back as well. I lunge forward without thinking and drive the little knife into the man's thigh with as much strength as I can muster.

He howls in pain and swings one hand. The back of his palm strikes across my cheek and I fall back into the dirt. My head throbs where he struck me. I can hear screaming, but it seems so far away.

The axe-man is standing over me. He rips my little knife from his thigh like it was a small thorn, and tosses it away.

I try to get up, but cannot. My head aches and the rest of my body does not seem to want to move. I brace myself for a death blow, or worse.

I hear the sound of metal swinging through the air. There is a terrible noise and a sword tip protrudes from the man's chest through the back. He staggers, wide-eyed, and drops his axe.

For a moment, he sways on his feet. Then, the sword is ripped out through his back and the man drops facedown beside me.

I look up, blinking against the pain in my head, and see Erlendur standing there. Blood streaks his face and is in his hair. His hands are covered in blood as well. The blade of his sword is dark red.

I am not sure whether I fainted or not, but the next thing I am aware of is being back in the longhouse. Asta is fussing over my hand. Jorunn sits on her bed, making bandages out of spare linen. She is paler than I've ever seen her.

There are footsteps at the door and my father and Erlendur both come in. My father looks exhausted and he carries a bloody axe. Erlendur is still covered in blood as well, but his sword is now sheathed.

I find my voice. "Is everyone alright?"

My father shakes his head. "We lost a few men from the fighting. We managed to save any women they would have had as slaves". He closes his eyes for a moment. "We should thank the gods it was not worse".

Asta nods her head in agreement. "Arnor, do you know who lead the attack?"

"I'm…not sure". He shakes his head again, and moves to the basin to wash off the blood.

I sense he knows, or at least suspects, but he does not want to say. One look at my grandmother's face tells me the same thing.

My father pats his face dry with a strip of Jorunn's linen. He looks at her and me. "Are you girls alright?"

Jorunn nods. "I was in here with grandmother the whole time. We could hear all the noise. I was so scared…" She starts to tremble and our father pulls her to his chest and holds her to him.

"My little girl," he says, stroking her hair. "You don't need to be afraid now". He releases her and turns to me. "Brynja, how is your hand?"

"It's fine, Father; just a cut." Then I remember. "There were two girls! Are they okay?"

My father nods. "I know the ones. They're shaken, but they'll survive. They weren't hurt".

I breathe a sigh of relief. "There was a man with an axe. Erlendur killed him".

We turn to where Erlendur was standing and find the space empty. He is gone.

….

That night, after wounds are tended, and the fallen are buried, we build a bonfire and pour ale to toast them and our success. It is a strange gathering. We mourn for those we've lost, worry for the injured, and yet we celebrate our survival and thank the gods for our loved ones who still live.

I spot Erlendur in the crowd. He has washed the blood away and has changed into a clean tunic. His sword still hangs from his waist.

I fill two cups with ale and make my way to him.

"You disappeared earlier" I say.

He turns to me. The fire casts shadows on his face. "I went to get cleaned up".

"Oh". I stare down at the cups in my hand, then remember why I brought them. I hold one of the cups out to him.

He eyes it warily. "What is this?"

"A thank you. For saving us…me, I mean".

He does not take the cup. "We are even now".

"Even?"

"You saved my life. Today, I saved yours. We are even".

I nod and hold out the cup again. "I suppose we are".

Erlendur slowly reaches out and takes the cup from me. Our fingers brush again, much like when we first spoke, but I am sure this time is intentional. The knotting feeling in my stomach returns and I feel a warm flush in my cheeks. I hope I can pass it off as the warmth of the fire.

Erlendur brings the cup to his lips and drinks from it. All the while, his eyes stay on my face. I try to meet his gaze. After a moment though, I begin to feel uncomfortable and look away.

I turn my back and walk away as casually as I can. I do not understand the fluttering feelings I get when we touch. I remember hearing stories as a child where the women gained bright eyes and pink cheeks as they looked on the faces of their beloved.

I scoff inwardly. It is a ridiculous idea that I could develop feelings for Erlendur, even if he has saved my life. I barely know him.

[Please note: This story is being moved to Archives of Our Own. Thank you.]


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